


This was how it started.

by Sarie_Fairy



Series: Secret Sex [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, First sexual encouter, Hand Job, MSR, Orgasm, Sexual Tension, explicit-ish, some resolved sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 19:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarie_Fairy/pseuds/Sarie_Fairy
Summary: This is an imagining of Scully and Mulder's first intimate encounter.





	This was how it started.

This was how it started. There were no declarations of love. It didn’t even begin with a kiss.

They were on was a tiresome red-eye after a particularly awful case. Dead women. These cases seemed to effect Scully more than they did Mulder. Not an indication of his indifference or lack of capacity for empathy. Just; women see themselves in female victims. 

It seemed to him that she could sleep anywhere. Planes, cars, couches, stakeouts. He struggled to sleep in a bed. That was his expectation of this flight. A gently slumbering Scully. Warm and affirming, by his side. He liked it when she leaned in during sleep. When she made contact, however small.

The flight attendant had turned off the overhead lights. Encouraging sleep, as though all the passengers were her children and she’d just finished the last chapter of a bedtime story. 

He hadn’t lost her to unconsciousness yet, though she was in her usual relaxed position, leaning her head against the window. He was in the seat next to her, even though the aisle seat beside him was free. This position necessary before as they discussed the case in hushed tones. 

He noticed the goose bumps on her forearms. They knew each other now. Didn’t bother with unnecessary questions. Stops at gas stations bringing in the correct haul; seeds and iced tea, or water and a particular favourite brand of gum. No need to ask. He stood up and retrieved a blanket from the overhead compartment. Unfolded it and sat back down. Silently, carefully, spread in over her, reaching across to tuck it between her knee and the side of the plane. She turned her head to him. A ‘thank you’ across her lips. He lay the remaining edge over his adjacent knee, then settled his hand on the armrest blanketed beneath.

They had seen things on this case, things that shouldn’t be known. Should never have been done. Together bore witnessed to too many of these horrors. A silent bond shared in the aftermath.

Her hand moved to his. Over it and squeezed, hidden under fabric. He turned his palm up to meet hers. Their fingers touched, explored. Interlocking, before dragging through each other. Grazing. Caressing. Hands became forearms. Gentle brushes along the soft, tender, inner side. Up and back.

It was that covert time of night. Somewhere between midnight and dawn. Over the world at 500 miles an hour. No-man’s land. No jurisdiction. Where things happened in secret, in obscurity, and aren’t discussed in daylight.

She shifted her axis. Swung from the window to him. Eyes still closed. Hands still clasped. The side of her head resting easily against his sculptured deltoid. As she moved, so did their hands, still in union, onto her lap. The acquaintance between them, cloaked under darkness; a separate liaison.

Exploration of hands and forearms, blending into hips and thighs. Encouraged by the slight parting of legs, and a whispered moan. Stroking, dipping low, moving intimately where she led him.

Her hand undid her button, his hand, the zipper. A shared effort to elicit the coupling of fingers and undergarments. He traced the anatomical parts that differentiated them. A mound, and contours of lips and where they meet. A contradiction of fervour and trepidation combined, trailing over cotton.

His hand now left alone to seek, accompanied instead by the tilt of her hips, the further parting of her legs.

His index finger drew back, snatched itself just under the fabric by the bow at the centre of her briefs. Her hand, his invitation again, guiding him in, down. His other fingers joined in, brushed over trimmed curls. Ever so lightly, all the way down over soft labia majora. Dragging up, pushing between labia minora. Settling there, warm and slippery. 

He moaned this time. Nearly said her name, but caught it in his throat. 

He pushed his index finger inside her. Cupped her mons with his strong, elegant hand. Moved in and out, galvanised by their newly formed affinity. 

Her breath began to match his strokes. Long and deep.

Her face rolled towards his and allowed his lips to join at her forehead. Tasting the fever he was creating below.

He moved now, swiped up with intent. Found her centre of nerves. Stimulated her, flicking and swirling. Plunging back down and in. 

He tried different patterns, to please her. 

The only words to pass between them. From her to him. ‘Don’t stop doing that’, she breathed, up into his ear, at the combination of two fingers deep, pressing her wall, thumb outside, pushing and swirling.

It wasn’t long then, before she bit her lip hard, jerked her head and sandwiched his hand between her thighs. He stilled, let his fingers remain to ride out the wave with her.

When it was over, he withdrew his hand, straightened her underwear, zipped and buttoned her. She grabbed his hand as he was taking it back. Held on to him as she fell into sleep. 

They slipped easily back in familiar routines. Disembarked. She, to the toilet (she loathes going mid-flight), he, to bring the car around. 

They didn’t talk much in the car.

He dropped her off and she declined his offer to carry her bag, said she’d be fine. It was just an overnight.

He said goodbye and that he would see her tomorrow. In the office.

She walked away. Followed the path. Turned back to him, under the illumination of the light, at the entrance to her apartment block. He was watching. She smiled to him, before taking herself inside.

That. That was how it started.


End file.
